Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1887-03-03
benntifnl old church standing In the

hall Durleu In Ivy ana nall nluuen In
trees, with sweet mellow chime of
bells. One could have fancied, as the
old poet says, that "the souls Of saints
were imprisoned within"-the SOUND
was so sad and so sweet. Cyril Marine
followed the sound, and he was weav-
ing in his mind melody that should
embrace all the sweet, sad music. He
did not recover from his dream until the
whole congregation stood up to sing,
and one voice led the others-a clear,
ringing, rich soprano, and he could not
help thinking that in sound it resem-
bled the mellow, sweet bells, and the
words were so beautiful. The clear,
ringing voice seemed to pierce the old
groined roof-to soar through the white
clouds and blue ether-to carry its
passion, its prayer right into the golden
heavens.
20 Paradise! o Paradise!
Who does not crave for rest;
Who would not seek the happy land.
Where they that loved are blessed?
10 Paradise! o Paradise!
The world is growing DID,
Who would not be at rest and free,
Where love is never cold2
80 Paradise! o Paradise!
feel twill not be long.
Patiencel almost think hear
Faint fragments OF thy song"
All day long that voice with Its
seraphic cry Of 80 Paradise!--O Para
dse!" ran: in his ears, until the very
melodies of heaven were brought down
to earth, and earth became heaven for
him.
He found the sweet singer, fell in love
with her after the mad fashion of poor
genius, married her, and took her home
to the woodlands. How happily he lived
with that fair young wife no human
tongue could tell. His music told, for
though it rang the sweetest melody.
Daisy Marine was not beautiful, but she
had a sweet, flower-like face, with dark
eyes and fair hair. They were married
in May, and for whole year she lived
life of most perfect happiness. All,
me! who would not give forty years Of
panied and troubled life for that one
year of perfect bliss?
Then the end came, and it is better
to die with gold on your hair, in the
warmth of the sunshine, with all the
foam still on the chalice Of love, than
live to be old, gray, and comfortless I'M
cheered and unblessed by human love.
The end came. One night in June the
little daughter Marguerite appeared
among the flowers and stars, and the
fiat went forth that the young mother
must die. Not at once she might linger
for many days, but the glorious voice
would never raise again in song, nor
would the light feet tread the woodland
hn haA N nf
Paradise that dying seemed like going
home.
She lived long enough to lean TO love
that tiny child with great passionate
love that surged like the waves of a
tempest through her failing heart.
When she grew weak in the strong
clutch of death. they carried the little
one away into the empty sitting-room,
but her eyes looked ever for it,
There was no picture on earth so sad
or so sweet as the fair young mother
lying dying with the child in her arms.
She kissed the little face with passionate
kisses, while Cyril Marine stood by, be-
wildered with grief.
"My Marguerite-my PEARL" she said.
"Oh, Cyril, let her never be called by
any other name than Marguerite. Tell
her how loved her; tell her | held her
in my arms while l lay dying. Oh.
Cyril, let me keep her until | am dead.
Tell her about Paradise. Say 1t for
me
% Paradise! Paradisel
feel 'tFill not be long.
Patterned ] almost think / hear
Faint fragments OF thy song
The light and the fragrance Of Para
disc seemed to be about her.
IL wish l could take her with me,
Cyril" she said family, "she would be
so safe"
And the old nurse who heard the
words shook her head with sad pro-
phecy. The sun set and the stars shone
the songs of Paradise came near, the
light on the dying face grew brighter
"Who would not be at rest and free,
Where love is never cold2"
With the breath Of the flowers, with
the uprushing of the summer wind that
June night-a soul went to heaven, and
so the dark shadow fell over the head
of little, motherless Marguerite Marine.
[To BE CONTINUED